


sometimes (your boyfriend, who's not your boyfriend)

by ohyou_know



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Charleston Shoe Thieves (Blaseball), Chicago Firefighters (Blaseball Team), Drinking, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Seattle Garages (Blaseball Team), Slow Burn, Songfic, Songwriting, Swearing, Texting, Tillman-Typical being an asshole, ish?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 11:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27969965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyou_know/pseuds/ohyou_know
Summary: Declan laughed humorlessly. “You know what he’d say right now? ‘Wow Dec, are you talking about your feelings right now? That’s pretty cringe of you.’ And yet for some reason I still--” His throat tightened around his words and heat began to pool behind his eyes. He snapped his mouth shut almost audibly and took another sip of his shitty hipster beer.“you know what you need to do?” Mike’s expression was impassive.“What?” he snapped. He didn’t mean to snap. Instead of apologizing he gritted his teeth.“write a song.”OROne part songfic, one part healing, infinite parts mike townsend (deserves a kiss).ORThe author has listened to shutout a million times and has decided to do something about it.
Relationships: Mike Townsend & Declan Suzanne, Mike Townsend/Declan Suzanne, Past Derrick Kreuger/Mike Townsend, Past Tillman Henderson/Declan Suzanne, Tillman Henderson & Mike Townsend, Tillman Henderson/Mike Townsend, Tillman Henderson/Mike Townsend/Declan Suzanne
Comments: 23
Kudos: 38





	1. Writing of an Intro

_sometimes your boyfriend_

_who’s not your boyfriend_

_who you make out with sometimes_

_comes back from the dead_

_and leaves you on read_

_and you’re not sure that he’s even alive_

__

“Dec? Are you paying attention?”

Declan Suzanne stuffed his phone into his back pocket. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll be right there.”

Two days. It had been two days since Tillman Fucking Henderson left him on read. He’d been back since the beginning of the season (11) and still didn’t bother to even send a “hey” back.

A surge of guilt washed over him. Rivers Rosa was being so patient with him and he was wasting her time. He needed this extra batting practice, asked for it even. 

He stepped up to the plate. He watched the rise and fall of Rosa’s shoulders as she hefted the ball in the air and swung at it with her blattle axe. _Whiff._ Strike one. Okay, he’d get the next one. _Whiff,_ strike two. That was a ball, he shouldn’t have swung. _Whoosh_. Strike three went by and he just stared at it.

“Alright, that’s it!”

Uh oh.

Declan watched as the aforementioned Rivers Rosa marched off the mound, right up to him, and plucked the bat out of his hands. “Practice is over. We’re going drinking.”

He scowled, confused. “What?”

“You,” she jabbed a finger at Declan’s chest. He just stared at her. “Need to get over that boy.”

“Uh.” He felt his face flush. “What boy?”

Rosa’s playful smirk melted into a sigh, and then a pitying look. Declan hated it. “Listen Dec, this isn’t about your horrible taste in men. It’s about getting you drunk.” He opened his mouth to protest, but Rosa pointed her axe at his face. He wisely shut his mouth. “ _And_ also about the fact that the Garages are playing at my favorite bar. And their new player is apparently an absolute BABE and I’m not going alone.”

Rosa lowered her axe and Declan breathed a sigh of relief. The thing was, he already had plans for the night; eating a bowl of ice cream, sitting on his too-soft couch that hurt his back, rewatching The Great British Blaking Show again while playing Clookie Cllicker, staring at his texts (one text) for hours. 

“...Are you sure you can’t bring Lou?”

Rosa raised her axe.

  
  


The Garages were, by nature of being a baseball team, an incredibly well-known and well-liked band. They still only performed in bars, though. Something about “the principal” of it or something, Declan wasn’t paying attention when Rivers explained why a dimension-renowned band was playing at a shitty bar in Chicago.

The performance was great, as Declan expected. The Garage’s fame wasn’t undeserved in the slightest. He found himself enjoying the show in spite of himself. He scanned the bar idly, looking for a gap to get a drink when he spotted a familiar face. 

Mike Townsend leaned against the bar, sipping a bubbly drink through a straw. The drink was still sitting on the countertop, and Mike had to stoop to drink it. Rivers had already found the new Garages player, Goodwin Mornin, and was chatting her up. She didn’t notice Declan slip away and to the bar.

“Sup?”

Mike Townsend startled when Declan sat down next to him. He stared for a moment, expression unreadable, before smiling. “oh haha, hey declan. you can see me?”

“Uh, yeah.” Declan’s eyebrows furrowed, and he scratched the inside of his right ear. Something about Mike was off. 

“your ears are fine, this is just a shadows thing.” One of the colored spotlights-- blue-- swung around and passed over Declan. He understood, now, why Mike’s drink was on the counter. The light passed right through him.

“hey mal, can you get a puget draft for this guy?” Mike ordered him a drink while he wasn’t paying attention. The bartender nodded and began to fill a tall glass with a dark, foamy liquid.

“Oh! You didn’t have to do that,” Declan insisted. Mike waved a hand dismissively.

“i wanted to. for keeping me company.”

They sat in a surprisingly comfortable silence, listening to the Garages play another encore while Declan’s drink arrived. He took a tentative sip and nearly gagged. It had a bitterness to it that was completely unpleasant. “Jeez, how do you drink this?”

“hm?” Mike had been staring at the stage. Declan gestured to his beer and Mike grinned. “oh, i don’t." He gestured to his own drink. "this is an americano. cocktail. that shit's horrible, it's why we order it for people."

Declan stared at him for a moment. Then he laughed harder than he had in weeks. It spilled out of him, like water through a broken damn. It wasn’t that funny, but for a moment he was able to surface through the heaviness that had been weighing him down the past season. The death of his not-boyfriend, the return of his not-boyfriend, being ignored by his not-boyfriend. For a few seconds he was in a world where Tillman Fucking Henderson didn’t exist. Or even better, a world where he was right by his side.

That last thought, of course, sent his mood plummeting. It was mindless habit to pull out his phone and open his texts. Still no change.

“waiting for someone?” Mike asked casually.

“Huh? Oh, no.” Declan checked the time. He had been staring at his phone for at least two minutes.

“haha are you sure man? you were looking like you--” Declan fixed Mike with a glare and he cut himself off with a gulp. “uh. nevermind.” A moment of tense silence passed. Declan almost regretted how harshly he looked at Mike. “want to talk about it?”

“No.” He answered immediately. It was Mike’s turn to fix him with a look; his wasn’t harsh, it was in fact the opposite. Soft, encouraging. Genuine. Declan sighed. Maybe he did. “Tillman Fucking Henderson won’t text me back.”

“oh?” Mike sat up a little straighter, prompting him on.

“Yeah.” Declan chewed his lip, thinking of how to explain. “You won’t say anything, right?”

“scout’s honor.” Mike made a heart-crossing motion and Declan snorted.

“Poggers.” Mike frowned slightly. Declan smiled wryly, only for a moment, before pressing on. “We were like-- I dunno, something? A thing but not a _thing_ , you know? And then he. He got.” The words stuck in Declan’s throat. He could still see it when he closed his eyes, the close-up shot of the umpire’s eyes turning white and Tillman’s flesh burning, melting, carbonizing--

“i know.” Mike patted Declan’s hand, but didn’t linger. His touch was like TV static. 

“Yeah.” He took a shaky breath. “And that was. It wasn’t okay, but I _mourned_ him and everything. I was coping. And then he came back.” Declan smiled, slightly, at the memory of his surge of joy when Tillman Fucking Henderson hit the perfect place on the idol board. When he clawed up and out of the ground and into the Shoe Thieves’ dugout. “I guess I thought that we could go back to normal? So I texted him, and he hasn’t texted back.”

“shit dude, that’s rough.” Mike said unhelpfully.

“Yeah.” Declan laughed humorlessly. “You know what he’d say right now? ‘Wow Dec, are you talking about your feelings right now? That’s pretty cringe of you.’ And yet for some reason I still--” His throat tightened around his words and heat began to pool behind his eyes. He snapped his mouth shut almost audibly and took another sip of his shitty hipster beer.

“you know what you need to do?” Mike’s expression was impassive. Declan felt a hot spike of anger pierce through him.

“What?” he snapped. He didn’t mean to snap. Instead of apologizing he gritted his teeth.

“write a song.”

“A song,” Declan deadpanned.

“yeah.”

Declan couldn’t tell if he was joking. He’d never written music before. He didn’t know how to sing. He hadn’t picked up a guitar since he joined the Firefighters.

Mike looked like he could sense Declan’s doubts. He turned to face him, fully, instead of facing the bar. “come with me back to my place.”

Declan choked on his drink. “What?”

Mike rolled his eyes. “trust me. i want to show you something.”

  
  
  


His place, as it turned out, was a hotel room. Of course it was, they were in Chicago. Bellevue was thousands of miles away. 

“What did you want to show me?”

Mike’s room was dim, but otherwise nice. Spacious. Clean. A duffle bag and guitar case were the only items out of place. Mike opened both. His guitar was electric, signature Garages blue and red. From the duffle he retrieved a well-worn notebook. Several coils were coming over the top, and pages stuck out slightly like they’d been ripped. A coffee stain took up most of the cover. “This.”

“Woah! You sound--”

“Different, yeah.” Declan took another look at Mike. His lanky form was more present, solid. His posture had changed too, it was much less hunched. He hadn’t realized how tall Mike was. All of his features were more in focus. An angular jaw, a mop of dark brown curls, sharp hazel eyes. “It’s easier to focus with less noise. The dark helps. Here.” He tossed the notebook at Declan; dead center where his strike zone would be.

“Same place, every time.” Declan murmured. Mike scowled and he immediately regretted it. “Sorry?”

Mike exhaled a "ha" and said nothing. Declan didn't push it.

The contents of the notebook were intense. Haphazard, smudged lines of blue ink filled every page. They were song lyrics, raw and powerful. He traced the pages with awe, feeling the indents of a pen pressed too hard.

He could _feel_ the emotion in every word, charged with betrayal and anger and crushing loneliness. His hands shook slightly as he skimmed through page after page of lyrics and doodles and rips. He felt like he was holding Mike Townsend’s soul.

“I wrote those when I got kicked out of the band.” Mike was sitting on the edge of his bed now, and gestured for Declan to sit as well. Behind him was the guitar. “It hurt, but writing songs helped me get it all out. I was able to like, process everything, yknow?”

“Yeah,” Declan breathed. “Do you think I can make something like this?” Mike’s lyrics were beautiful. Doubt creeped at his mind, surely he wasn't capable.

Mike shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.” Declan closed the notebook and passed it back to Mike like it was precious. Mike, in turn, tossed it carelessly on top of his bag. “And you really think this can help?”

Another shrug. “It helped me.” He picked up his guitar. “You play, right?”

“Haven’t in years.”

“Show me what you got.” 

Declan stared at Mike. Mike stared back. Finally, he took the guitar, breathed in deeply, and opened his mouth.

  


Declan woke up in Mike Townsend’s hotel room bed. He was woken up by the deafening snoring of one such Mike Townsend, sleeping on the floor. Declan watched as his form flickered between completely solid and barely there. It was terrifying, but not as terrifying as the texts he missed last night.

“Mike.”

“huh?” Mike Townsend propped himself up on his elbows, blinking blearily.

“Mike I gotta go.”

“yeah. Yeah, okay.” Mike became more sold as he reached for a spare notebook on the floor beside him, ripped out a page, and scrawled out a phone number. Declan took it. “I’ll get us some studio time in Seattle this Sunday.”

“Oh! Alright, yeah. Pog.” Declan added the number to his phone, and grimaced again at Rosa’s messages. “Okay I like, really have to go.”

Mike gave Declan a small thumbs up before flopping over and going right back to snoring. Declan shrugged and left the hotel room quietly as possible, with two pieces of notebook paper folded carefully in his pocket.

_“But you’re not my teammate.”_

_“Close enough, it fits better than ‘You borrow Mike Townsend’s guitar.’ This is about you, not me. Stretching the truth a little is fine.”_

_“If you say so.”_

Pride plucked at the edges of Declan’s mind. Mike was right, writing a song was helping. He left lighter than he had felt since Tillman got incinerated. On the bus ride home, he unfolded the second piece of paper and reread the intro that he and Mike had written.

_so you pick up the phone_

_and then you set it down_

_and you borrow your teammate’s guitar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Blaseball fans! This idea has been keeping me up at night for the last week so i finally caved and put it to paper. All feedback is appreciated, even feedback swaps! Also listen to [shutout](https://thegarages.bandcamp.com/track/shutout)!!


	2. Only Townsend Knows

**TILLMAN HENDERSON IS RETURNED!**

**MIKE TOWNSEND RETREATS INTO THE SHADOWS!**

  
  


_His lips were soft, and tasted vaguely of weed. It wasn’t unpleasant, not like it used to be. His arms pulled closer, closer. His flannel was threadbare and supple to the touch. He was warm and safe and so, so good._

_“Townsend.”_

_He said it like a prayer._

Mike’s eyes snapped open.

The shadows were nothing new to him. He knew he was on borrowed time the moment the Dark Star Blessing was announced. Seattle needed more pitching stars, and they didn’t need Mike Townsend. There was already precedent for trading Mike away for better players, so.

So.

Mike Townsend got out of bed. He stretched, felt the pop of static in place of a cracking sound that his bones now made. Early morning light sizzled against his barely-there skin. Not painfully, but alarmingly. He stomped over to his window and pulled the curtains shut with a sharp _snap_ . In his Bellevue apartment that wouldn’t happen, he got blackout curtains the first time he was shadowed and they’d stayed firmly shut ever since. Even during his short stint _emerged_ he kept them shut out of habit.

Sleeping while shadowed was… weird. He wasn’t _gone_ , but he still wasn’t all there. His mind, however, was always somewhere else. _With_ someone else. The memories were addictive, cloying. Waking up always left him with the same hollowed-out feeling.

_Knock knock._ “Mike! The bus leaves in 15!”

He wasn’t playing at the bar tonight. He couldn’t, not with the spotlights. But the team liked bringing him along. It lessened their guilt of trading him away.

He didn’t know how to tell him that he didn’t really care.

“yeah, ted. i’ll be right down.”

He didn’t have much getting ready to do. He was stuck in the exact same state he was in when he got shadowed; chipped black nails, away jersey, washed-out jeans. It was just a matter of pulling himself together enough to pick up the platter of red and blue frosted dark chocolate cupcakes that he’d made before the plane trip and opening the door. Thankfully, no one stopped him on his way down to the lobby. He doubted he’d be able to carry a conversation, not with his sickly-sweet dream taking up all the headspace me could spare. 

Goodwin took the platter from him when he got to the lobby, which he appreciated. She wasn’t playing tonight either, she was too fresh. Hadn’t meshed with the band yet. Mike, to the surprise of everyone who didn’t know him, actually liked Goodwin. Sure, she replaced him, but that was hardly her fault. 

“Townsend! These look incredible, as usual.” Hey voice boomed pleasantly. “Far better than anything I’ve seen where I’m from.”

“thanks, mornin.” The lobby was too bright. “could we--?”

“The tour bus. Yes.” She placed one of her shadowy arms on his shoulder, and he immediately felt himself stabilize. His teammates described Goodwin’s touch-- and his own-- like seltzer water, like it almost _fizzed_. But to Mike, Goodwin’s hand felt like flesh in a way that he wasn’t able to feel from anything else while in the shadows. Goodwin admitted that his shadowy form was the same way. Her shadow powers meshed with him well enough to make rides in vehicles a non-lethal experience. 

Well, it at least made it more convenient. Mike wasn’t sure if he _could_ die like this, but he didn’t want to find out by glitching through the bottom of an airplane. 

Mike and Goodwin were almost first on the bus. Theodore Duende, of course, beat them to it. He was captain, after all.

“Goodwin! Mike, those look great.” Teddy plucked a cupcake off the plate. “These are pre-show cupcakes, right?”

Mike grinned. “haha, yeah.” He loved that people enjoyed his baking. It was one of the few things he could do for the team anymore. He watched Teddy devour the cupcake, getting frosting on his nose. Mike laughed and tapped the side of his nose, and laughed harder as Teddy tried and failed to lick it off with his tongue. 

The rest of the team filed in, took a cupcake, thanked Mike. A swell of joy replaced, at least temporarily, the crushing feeling that had taken residence in his chest earlier.

  
  
  


The bar was far from the worst places the Garages had played. Red and blue lights-- of _course_ they were red and blue-- swept around the otherwise dim establishment. It was a nice touch, but every time a light hit him he went all… fuzzy. Thankfully, he was able to get a bartender to give him a straw so he didn't drop his drink. “You look a lot like Mike Townsend,” they joked as they slid it into his drink.

“yeah.” The corner of Mike’s mouth twitched upwards. “i get that a lot.” He peered through the dark at the bartender’s name tag. “is mal short for something?”

“Malachite.” The bartender picked up a towel and began rubbing at a glass idly.

“like the rock?”

“Yep!” They sigh, then smile fondly. “My boyfriend makes jokes about it all the time.”

“right on.” Mike sipped at the drink. The Garages were setting up onstage, and the bar was already filling up. People tended to ignore him, yet another side effect of being shadowed. He had to talk to them first most of the time to get them to notice him, or they had to be seeking him out. And no one ever really _wanted_ to see Mike Townsend. He didn’t blame them.

“Hello, Chicago!” The crowd roared as Theodore stepped onto the stage. The rest of the band stepped up and took their positions on stage. A cheer rose up as the intro for Limiter: Released blasted from the speakers. He noted that it wasn’t the version from the Skarages! album. 

It wouldn’t be the Skarages! without a saxophone, after all.

When the Garages played at a bar, they always brought exclusive drinks with them. And they were always, _always_ shitty. It was tradition for the bandmates to take a milky white shot of _Whale Stuff_ before hitting the stage. Mike was tempted to order one, just for kicks. He did, and it tasted exactly as you’d expect. Before long, Pathetic/Spineless was pouring from the stage. The last song of the set.

“Sup?”

Mike was startled out of his thoughts by a Firefighter-- Declan Suzanne-- sitting down next to him. He was overcome with confusion. He could _feel_ when people were looking for him, he felt nothing. And he certainly wasn’t looking for Declan-- no offense to him. And yet here he was, sitting next to him. Mike realized he’d gone too long without returning the greeting.

So he smiled.

Declan, as it turned out, was good company. He took the Puget Draft gag like a champ, which Mike appreciated. Talking to him made him feel more present than he should have been able to feel. It was different from how Goodwin held him in place. Goodwin’s shadowy touch demanded he ground himself to her. But Declan’s presence was… Inviting. It made keeping himself in one place easier. 

Hearing him talk about Tillman was hard. Talking about incineration was always hard. Mike patted his hand in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture-- that was until he realized that he could _feel_ Declan’s hand. Usually when he touched a flesh-and-bone person it felt like touching the wrong side of a magnet, like he was being repelled. Declan’s hand was warm. Nice. COnfusing.

Hearing Declan talk about missing Tillman was also hard because Mike was the first person Tillman went to see after he came back.

  
  
  


_“Townsend, open the fucking door!”_

_Mike’s hands were covered in rye flour. “it’s unlocked.”_

_It was 1 AM, the day after the elections. He was in the shadows. Again._

_The door swung with force and hit the wall with a loud_ bang _. An ash-covered Tillman Henderson marched up to Mike, finger pointed, door still open behind him. “Did you do this?” He accused._

_“do what?” Mike grabbed a towel to dust off his fingers. The lump of dough on his counter wasn’t even close to where he wanted it, but he got the feeling he needed to close the door. Maybe he should have been angry at the dent the doorknob put into his wall. He couldn’t remember how to feel much of anything._

_“This!” Tillman gestured at his body. Mike almost smiled._

_“bring you back from the dead?”_

_“Yes! Is this some kind of weird gay way to get me to_ like _you or something?” He began pacing around Mike’s kitchen. “You got shadowed, right?” Tillman whirled to face him. “I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time the fans threw you away for someone better.”_

_It was supposed to hurt, and it might have, just a little. But he was used to it. His team wrote and performed a blillboard-topping song about how much they hated him. His skin had gotten thicker over the seasons. “we’re not on the same team, dipshit. i had nothing to do with it.”_

_“Oh. Huh,” he said dumbly, like it hadn't occurred to him. He hopped up onto the countertop, right into a pile of flour. White powder flew everywhere. Both Mike and Tillman pretended they didn’t care. “...But that’s still what happened, right?”_

_“what?”_

_“They sent you away for someone better.”_

_“oh. yeah, they did.” His voice was hollow, he could hear it._

_“Man, that blows." He paused. "What’re you making?”_

_Mike thinks it might have been some kind of apology. Or maybe he was just looking for some company._

  
  
  


Of all the people that Mike expected to bring back to his hotel room, Declan Suzanne was one of the last people he’d pick.

Well, okay. He wasn’t _expecting_ to bring anyone. That’s not. Look, Declan was plenty attractive. But they were there to talk about songs, not-- _You Know._

Mike’d unscrewed the overhead lights when he checked in, so no one would turn them on by accident. The lamps, however, he left intact with pillowcases wrapped around them. He let Declan turn them on while he opened his guitar case and duffle bag.

Traveling light was easy, seeing as he was semi-incorporeal. Music and baking were two things that he could do on his own to keep himself anchored. Baking was hard to do without a kitchen so… Music.

“What did you want to show me?”

His duffle bag was filled with notebooks and pens. He dug around until he found what he was looking for, a 99¢ spiral notebook with a flimsy, coffee-stained cardboard cover. While he was searching, his fingers brushed a leather-bound journal with hand-made pages. He shoved that book to the bottom of the bag.

“This.”

The sound of his own voice startled him a little. Sounding crisp and clear was hard, and he usually didn’t bother to put the effort in. But with Declan, and in a dim environment, it was effortless.

Huh.

He tossed Declan the notebook. It was a huge, vulnerable piece of himself, but he didn’t mind sharing. It was music, after all. Music was meant to be shared. Okay, maybe he hadn't shared it with anyone before. But Declan wasn't the worst person to start with.

"Same place, every time." Declan murmured as he caught the book. It stung like a blow, and Mike couldn't understand why.

Watching Declan go through the notebook was an experience of its own. The way he touched the pages was almost reverent, far too revenant for something he stole from a clearance bin. His fingers traced the lyrics like they were precious. The look on his face was so open and genuine it made Mike’s stomach twist. 

When Mike invited Declan to sit on the bed, he sat close. He could feel the warmth radiating off of him. He wanted to reach out and touch his hand, to feel the same radiating warmth that he felt when he patted it in the bar.

Instead, he told him about songs.

Even in the theorycrafting stage of writing, Declan’s pain was evident. The purposeful ambiguity of his relationship with Tillman relationship, the fact that his closure was ripped away from him, the sting of rejection; he could feel it all. Declan poured all of it into writing an intro, and Mike knew there was plenty more to feed the rest of the song. They experimented with lyrics and cords until the late hour and alcohol finally put Declan to sleep. 

Mike threw a blanket over Declan and laid down on the ground. He listened to Declan’s gentle snoring as he closed his eyes. That night he’d made a new friend. A new friend that helped him feel real. A new friend that he wanted to help in turn. And, well.

Mike Townsend knew.

He knew what he had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys liked this update! POV will be switching every chapter. i wonder who's up next...? (hint: it's tillman)  
> chapter title inspired by [Mike Townsend (Is a Credit to the Team)](https://thegarages.bandcamp.com/track/mike-townsend-is-a-credit-to-the-team-3).  
> this mike townsend design hc is inspired by [@cryptidmilk](https://twitter.com/cryptmilk) on twitter! give him some love!! also special thanks to my dear partner malachite for letting me make fun of them.  
> i also have a twitter of my own if you're interested, [@69YouKnowIt](https://twitter.com/69YouKnowIt)! i'll be mostly posting about updates and retweeting other people's stuff. i'm hoping to get at LEAST an update every week, but that's subject to change. this is the second update this week so it could be i'll be churning these out every few days lol, we'll see.


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